Changeling, and Other Stories
If he were a man and not an angel, with his red beard and gnarled
fingers and shy ways, he might be an old-fashioned farmer who cared
more for his land than for the price of corn, and who would allow no
tractors or mechanical appliances on his place, still having faith in
the firm hands of workmen, and the strength and canniness of horses.
He is evidently embarrassed, and not quite at home, and it is easily
seen that he is more accustomed to looking at the crack in a horse's
frog, and tending sick ewes, and herding homeless dogs, than facing
emotional tension such as seems to be present.
He comes forward shyly, his brow wrinkled in an embarrassed smile. And
the dog smiles back at him, opening a laughing mouth and wagging its
tail. And the horse gives a little whinny. But the rest are silent.
The elephant regarding him with a sort of kindly contempt, and the
crocodile watching him with ophidian distrust. But the lion is warm
with anger and the tiger dangerously cold with it. The great white
bear is serious.
The Angel of the Lord speaks. His voice is soft and his speech
halting. And we have a sudden chill of horror as we recognize his
accent as Irish. Not quite Southern Irish, and not distinguishably
Northern Irish--neutral Irish.
"Well, now, this is an unusual thing, an out-of-the-way thing, I might
say.... I ... I hope I see you all well?"
There is a rustle of the little creatures back of the deputation. And
in the circle before the angel the dog is wagging his tail, and the
horse throwing up his head. But silence.
"I take it there is something on all your minds, so! Well, let you
speak up, now, and let me hear what it is. It isn't the weather:
that's elegant. And it can't be the crops. I was talking to the Angel
of the Crops last night, and devil a better season has he seen since
the night of the big wind."
He gets no answer.
"It's queer and shy you 've got all of a sudden. And why should you be
shy with me? Sure there 's never anything come between us since I was
put over you. And have n't I always been your friend? Let one of you
speak up, now. How about yourself?" He turns to the lion. "The king
of beasts, they call you. Let you be speaking, now, for the crowd."
All around us now is the occult night of Egypt. Live sand and the
little wind among the hillocks, and back of us the antique Nile. Here
first was magic. And here first the half-gods were worshiped under the
guise of beasts; of the cat and of the crocodile, and of others. And
here is the monument of the half-god, the Sphinx, that is woman and
animal, beauty and terror.
And as we listen, the beasts speak, and to our human mechanics the deep
vibrations are translated into human sounds, and the voice of the lion
is as the voice of some great one of our race speaking in anger. And
in the deep rumble we can hear thunder:
"In the place where I live by the great lake there is lately come a
man." So the lion! "He is a trading man. His legs are bandy. He is
rarely shaven. In the morning his eyes are bleary. He blinks at the
green light of dawn.
"And in the green glade where he is come he has builded a house. He
has littered the ground with mangled boughs of trees, with papers, with
tin cans which are emptied of his food. And the winds cannot clean
that place, nor the rains wash the obscenity away.
"And all day long this man sits behind his counter in the little shop
and barters with the black man, giving knives and beads and cloth for
the skins of the animals whom it is allotted to the black man to kill.
And giving him white man's liquor.
"And the white man drinks his own liquor, and when his heart is high
with it, he takes his rifle and comes to seek me--for he has to seek
me; I and all the clean things of the land avoid him, so little kin is
he to us.
"And if he kills me for his sport, my lioness will come and he will
kill her, too, and what shall become of our little tawny cubs?
"Why should this man come into our clean land, and make unbeautiful the
dells, and stalk me that he may boast to other drinking men: 'I have
killed the king of beasts'?"
"Ay! Ay!" The angel is disturbed. "He does make the place look bad.
And true for you, he does go after you. I understand. I understand
fully, but--"
And now the tiger has arisen, and his speech comes sibilant, with a
little snarl:
"They who come up the Hooghly are not unshaved but clean. They are
precise, languid men. They come for gain in the country. They do not
barter in shops, but gain comes to them. They govern, and for being
governed the brown men of India pay tribute and tax.
"And when the languid men from over the sea grow tired of governing,
they go out to seek adventure. They send out the brown Indian men on
foot to rouse me from the jungle sleep. And they follow with guns on
our brother the elephant, and when I am driven into the open, and stand
there dazed with the sun, they shoot at me from the back of our brother
the elephant.
"And was it for this I was made, given great emerald eyes, given amber
skin with great black stripes, given silken muscles, and claws like
knives, to be driven out of my warm green jungle into the blinding sun,
and be killed by languid men?"
"Well, now, you know what they say; if they did n't kill you, you 'd
kill them."
"How many have I killed, except in defense? Is it sport for me to
leave the cool, moonlit glades, and come to the hot cities to kill men?
If I want fighting, are there not the wild boar and my brother the
elephant? And if I want food, is man as succulent as the young kid?"
"Ay, there 's a lot in that. And what is your complaint?" He turned
to the great carven elephant.
"I am the wisest, the strongest, the most dignified of all. I live on
the shoots of young trees, and raid sometimes the crops, but I kill
nothing except in terror or defense. And once they sought me out in
the secret places for great ivory teeth, and there was great danger.
And it was either kill or be killed.
"And now they trap me with cunning. Now there are helot elephants
trained to decoy the brethren of the warm woods, and traps to hold us.
And when they have made us fast they starve us cruelly. And they bring
us across waters and exhibit us, and the clown and the yokel pay their
copper pennies to gaze at the wise and strong in captivity. And some
greasy man pouches the wages of our prison. Was it for this we were
made wise and kindly and strong?"
The angel is embarrassed. He looks right and left. He turns in relief
to the great white bear:
"Sure, now, what complaint can you have? There 's nobody going to
shoot at you from the back of the elephant. And there's no man going
to open a shop where you are. Begor, 't is few customers he 'd have
barring the sea-gulls. And whenever you get killed, 't is your own
fault. It's your curiosity brings you to where they can get a shot at
you. If you 'd stick around your icebergs you 'd be better off. Sure,
you lead the life of a lord's lady. What brings you here at all?"
"I come for the little seals, and our sister the whale. They cannot
walk. And they are in great trouble."
"I know. I know. Sure, my heart's just in chains for them."
"The seals huddle on the rocks with their young. They huddle and
tremble, and each sinister boat in the Arctic seas is a menace. And
the seas are wide, and the patrols are few."
"I know. I know."
"The black boats come, and the men with rifles."
"Ah, now, don't be talking! Don't I know!"
"And our sister the whale skulks in black seas--she who once greeted
the sun in the morning. And now seldom appears--who once loved to bask
like a cat. She is haunted in her own ocean until she cannot show her
steaming fountains. And as a people, she is a slender people, and will
soon die."
"A great and terrible loss, surely. Sure, I 'm trying to forget, and
you 're reminding me. And you?"
"I have no complaint," uttered the crocodile. "They rarely kill me
with guns. They seldom capture me. And there are always small black
children bathing in the Nile. And boats get upset often. I have no
complaint," he leered.
"Do you know--" the angel is severe--"I never liked you. And what use
you are on this earth is more than I can see. Do you know," he said,
"I 've half a mind to hoof you back into the river. I have so. Now,
here 's one has a complaint." He turned to the horse. But the horse
shook its head.
"No complaint, and you the hardest-worked of them all! And the rest of
these lazy devils doing nothing but lolling around in the sun. And
you, my darling?"
The dog uttered a joyous bark.
"You have no complaints, either."
"Except," the dog pleaded, "that they should n't muzzle me in the heat
of the day."
"Well, now, boys--" the angel was awkward with his hands--"I take it
you 've all got a complaint to make against man. You object, I infer,
to his shooting at you with guns, except, as he is entitled to, in
self-defense. And I take it our friend the elephant also objects to
being exhibited. On the whole, you object to the present attitude of
man. Now, what do you want me to do?"
"We want you," the lion said, "to have God make man stop attacking us."
"Well, now--" the angel shifts from one foot to the other--"well, now,
you 've touched on a very delicate situation. On all subjects, of
course, you 'll find God kind--I might say, to a degree. But the
subject of Man is just a wee bit touchy.
"God, you know, is very much interested in Man. He thinks a lot of
man, and He is very much inclined to let man have his own way.
"So whether He 'd listen to a complaint against man or not, I don't
rightly know. Personally, between me and you, I think it might be
dangerous to put it that way.
"But I 'll tell you what I 'll do. I 'll wait until some fine day when
they tell me He 's in good humor, when He's pleased about Man having
thought out some new fine scheme, or made a discovery, and then I 'll
tackle Him, nice and easy.
"Yes, I 'll take it up some day, and I 'll see what I can do. I 'm
sure if I can get Him in a good humor, I can do something. Will that
satisfy you?"
"It will not," said the animals.
"Well, then, what do you want me to do?"
"We want you," the tiger's sibilant purr came, "to go from us to God
now, to-night."
"Och! have sense! You don't know what you 're asking. I suppose you
think I 've only got to knock at the door and ask God to come out and
talk it over, and offer Him a pinch of snuff, maybe, and ask Him how
the weather 's agreeing with Him. Do you know this wee earth is only
one of a million? Of course you can't comprehend that, being only
animals and having no reason."
There is something like a snort from the elephant. The Angel of the
Lord ventures a timid glance in that direction, but says nothing. The
angel is rather in awe of the elephant, as a mother might be of a
genius child. He switches to a different point:
"Besides, I suppose you think there are only a few angels of us in
it--myself and the Angel of the Changing Seasons, and the Angel of the
Growing Crops, and the Angel of the Rivers and Streams, and the Angel
of the Five Oceans. Well, let me tell you, there's archangels, and
there's powers and dominions, and cherubim and seraphim, and God knows
what else. And there's angels you never heard of: there's the Angel of
the Progress of Education, and there 's the Angel of Economic
Conditions, and the Angel of Atomic Energy. All very clever
fellows--geniuses, you might say. And there 's the Angel of Arts and
Crafts, a sloppy-looking lad I would n't be caught talking to.
"And there 's English angels, all very superior, and Italian angels,